


Soul For Sale

by ragtags



Category: Turn (TV 2014), Turn: Washington’s Spies
Genre: Angst, Body Horror, Character Death, Death, Enemies to Friends, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Lost Love, Love Triangle, Lovers to Friends, M/M, Multi, Mutilation, Oh, Revenge, but hey, content warning, general fucking content warning for chapter 2, meaning it takes place in the canon universe, sorry I came so late to this fandom, sorry in advance yall, time period au, tried to be as vague as possible while describing shit so like, trigger warning, y’all it’s just gonna be sad for a bit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-15
Updated: 2019-11-15
Packaged: 2021-01-31 01:16:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21437794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ragtags/pseuds/ragtags
Summary: “You know nothing about me, Lieutenant Brewster.” Washington’s voice was firm; cold. Empty.“I know you and yer arse well enough that if you’d just listened to Ben— if you’d just truste—““I DID TRUST HIM.” Washington slammed his fist against the fireplace. Tears welled in his eyes but he wouldn’t allow them to fall; wouldn’t allow himself to become vulnerable. “I trusted him...with my life. And you know this.”“Yeah well,” Caleb snarled, “doesn’t make a shite of difference now. Because he’s gone. He’s gone and it’s your fault for sendin’ him an’ not me.”
Relationships: Benjamin Tallmadge/George Washington, Caleb Brewster/Benjamin Tallmadge
Comments: 15
Kudos: 32





	1. Chapter 1

March 10th, 1780.

The call came in around two in the morning, and it was the last thing anybody wanted to hear. It started with the thunderous sound of hooves battering down upon grass and mud as the beast grunted and snorted; pushed to the absolute limits that any creature could handle. The March air was still chilled; not warm enough yet for the army to leave their tents without proper coats, but not cold enough to where standing outside for any lengthy amount of time would catch them a cold.

The man who rode atop the horse into the Continental camp was scrawny, covered in blood, and had a crazed look in his eyes. He shook violently as he dismounted his horse and ran to George Washington’s headquarters, stumbling and tripping over himself along the way. A few men, bleary eyed stepped out from their tents to watch the recruit. 

“Sir!” he screamed out, voiced ragged, “Sir, please! It’s an emergency! Sir! Somebody! Anybody!” The young recruit slammed his fists against the door to the stone house, hoping that someone, anyone would hear him. To his credit; many did. More sleepy recruits, soldiers, and other ranks of the military began to stir and shuffle out of their tents, sleepy-eyed. Lieutenant Caleb Brewster was among the few that managed to drag their sorry asses out of bed and towards the young man. 

“The bloody hell’re you doing?” Caleb asked, yawning. He stretched his body; bones and muscles cracking loudly against the otherwise still night. The scrawny recruit turned and ran to him, clutching Caleb’s night shirt with dirty hands. It took Caleb Brewster all of two full seconds to realize who the recruit was, and what platoon he had come from. He was one of Ben’s newest Dragoons. 

The young man stared Caleb down, and he Caleb knew something was terribly wrong.

“Lieutenant,” he said, and Caleb could see tears welling in his eyes.

“Where’s Ben?” Caleb asked firmly. The scrawny man’s tears couldn’t hold as he found his body wracked with loud, hard sobbing. The man tried to speak, tried to say something but Caleb wasn’t listening. The whole world had gone silent. Everything and nothing slowly collapsed in on itself. 

For Caleb Brewster, the world was ending.

Caleb wasn’t sure how he ended up in General Washington’s headquarters. He wasn’t exactly sure how he managed to keep himself upright in the parlor room, standing next to the fire to warm up. He wasn’t even sure this was real; perhaps it was all just...a bad dream. A nightmare of sorts that was too real to be anything else.

The recruit had, after some mild coaxing and three full swigs of rum, relayed that their party had been ambushed. They had been taken by surprise by men in green coats. Ben had ordered a retreat; run into the woods, try to scramble for higher ground, anything that could keep his men alive. 

_And how did you survive? _Caleb had spat with venom. 

_ By the grace of God, sir, _the recruit managed thickly. Caleb had raised a hand; anger would be his only companion. The recruit had flinched and his mouth ran like a river. 

_ I don’t know, I really don’t! We were settling in for the night when they came. We weren’t prepared. I, I, I, I saw it happen. All of it. Major Tallmadge tried to save us. A tall man with a wild look in his eyes cut him down in front of us. _

_ And you’re sure you saw Major Tallmadge fall? _ The question hung thick like cotton in Caleb’s mouth as he asked it. He asked, but he’d needed to know. The recruit had nodded silently, as silently as one could in between wet sobs. 

Caleb wanted to run. God, he wanted to run and ride and find him. Find Ben. Find Ben and know that he’s alive; okay. He wanted to know that maybe the recruit had seen wrong. Hadn’t seen Ben slain, but rather someone else. Ben had to be alive. Not…

“Lieutenant Brewster,” came a deep, sullen voice from behind him. He turned, looking to see George Washington as white as a sheet and dressed in full military regalia. It seemed as though maybe the good General had gotten himself dressed to also see to the task at hand. Caleb swallowed thickly; he didn’t want to see this bastard all done up in his garb, pretending like they were friends.

“Don’t,” Caleb warned; voice thick and venomous. 

“Caleb,” Washington’s voice was softer now. He took a step forward and Caleb instinctively took a step back. 

“No, Sir.” Caleb began, arm outstretched. “Will all due respect and pardon Sir, no. Don’t..Don’t give me this ‘Caleb’ shite.”

Washington took a step forward; there was sympathy and...was that loss? blooming across his face. They stood there in silence for what felt like an hour, though the seconds of the grandfather clock in the hall reminded them that it had only been a minute. 

“I know he was your friend,” Washington finally began again. Caleb stiffened, his red face; eyes blotted with tears that he’d firmly held back and would continue to hold back. He wouldn’t cry, not here. He wouldn’t allow himself to be vulnerable until he was alone. 

“He weren’t just my friend, Sir,” Caleb shot back, eyes narrowing, “he was my life. My best friend. My, my…”

Washington gave him a grave look. They knew; they both knew. Benjamin Tallmadge had been one of the greatest, kindest, loyal soldiers to have ever served in the Continental army. They both knew how each other felt- both knew how Ben felt about both of them. 

”I want you to know that I loved him.” Washington confessed, voice strained. 

“Oh how high and mighty of you. You loved bloody shite about him!” Caleb’s voice met Washington’s with venom. They stood there in Washington’s parlor, both visibly shaking. 

“You sent him on a fool's errand and for what?!”

“You know nothing about me, Lieutenant Brewster.” Washington’s voice was firm; cold. Empty. 

“I know you and yer arse well enough that if you’d just listened to Ben— if you’d just truste—“

“I DID TRUST HIM.” Washington slammed his fist against the fireplace. Tears welled in his eyes but he wouldn’t allow them to fall; wouldn’t allow himself to become vulnerable. “I trusted him...with my life. And you know this.” 

“Yeah well,” Caleb snarled, “doesn’t make a shite of difference now. Because he’s gone. He’s gone and it’s your fault for sendin’ him an’ not me.” 

A tense silence grew around them like a fog. Caleb wanted nothing more than to punch his commander in the face, but knew better. He knew it’s not what Ben would have wanted. So he clutched his fists tightly and stared the old fox down. Washington merely turned and looked away, fumbling with his hands.

“I’m goin’ to get him,” Caleb finally said. He watched as Washington’s head shot up; eyes wide. He could tell the answer was no, but that wasn’t about to stop Caleb Brewster.

“I’m goin,” he stated before Washington could respond, “I’m goin’ to get Ben Tallmadge. I’m goin’ to bring him home. An’ I’m gonna bury him. And yer gonna keep yer pompous arsehole out of it.”

“If you do,” Washington began, teeth bared, “then consider yourself a deserter of this army. I will not allow you, nor any officer to speak to me in such a manner. I understand you are hurting, Caleb, but we mustn’t fight--”

“Oh. Oh, you know how I feel, eh?” Caleb snarled, “Tell me then, Sir. How am I feelin’? How dare you tell me you understand me when you know nothin’ ‘bout me.”

Caleb turned on a heel. He could feel Washington’s gaze boring down on his soul. He’d have asked God for forgiveness but, he doubted the man upstairs was even listening. How could he, after what he did to the man Caleb...well, that didn’t matter, now did it? He took in a deep breath, his back still turned to Washington.

“M’going to find him, Sir,” he started, calmly, “An’ I’m gonna bring him home. An’ I’m gonna bury him. Now, yer more than welcome to join me, Sir, but...This is something I gotta do alone.”

Silence billowed around them, thick and tense. Washington watched as Caleb carefully gave a curt bow of his head, and walked out. George stood there, cursing under his breath. It wasn’t until he was fully alone that his legs buckled from under him and he wept. 

Outside Caleb grabbed his things, readied a horse, and set off for a destination he wasn’t entirely sure he was ready to see. 

_ Don’t go _, he’d said to Ben three days back. 

_ You know I have to, Caleb. _

_ Send me then. I ain’t worth nothin’ to Washington. _

_ You know that isn’t true, Brewster _. He could see bens smile; feel Ben's hand grip his shoulder tightly. Tears swelled in Caleb’s eyes as he rode out of camp. 

_ I’ll see you in a few days. We can share a bottle of brandy you smuggled from Setauket. Just like old times, eh?_

_ Yeah...just like old times. _

Caleb wiped snot from his nose as he urged the horse faster. 

_ I’m comin’ for you, Ben. I’m coming to bring you home. _


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Caleb screamed. _
> 
> _He screamed and cursed God._
> 
> _He screamed and cursed England._
> 
> _He screamed and cursed Washington._
> 
> _Caleb Brewster screamed until the sun sat high in the sky, and his voice was hoarse._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all. Just a quick content warning: there's gonna be some vague talks about body mutilation in this chapter so like, just a heads up if you haven't read the tags.

The night was cold, marked worse by the chill of the wind whipping past Caleb’s face as he raced down the dirt road on the back of his horse.

_ “Death comes for us all in the end.” _ That’s what Benjamin Tallmadge had said to Caleb Brewster the day he joined the Continental Army. They had been sat on a dock overlooking the Sound, a bottle of brandy split between the pair.  _ “Why not fight for the right cause in the hopes that a future legacy is born from our beliefs? Why remain a whaler, trading and hoping you don’t get the noose over one bad trade with a Regular?” _

That had been enough. Caleb didn’t need convincing. So long as Benjamin Tallmadge, his best friend from Setauket, was there; nothing could have persuaded him to decline the offer. He’d drank himself silly that night. They both had. 

But that was then, and this was now.

Caleb slapped his boot stirrups into the sides of his horse, urging it faster. The beast grunted and whinnied below him as it pushed itself to the absolute limit. It was easily a days ride from the main camp to where Benjamin and his accompaniment were stationed; Caleb planned to make it in half the time.

The ride was long, made longer by the constant memories that flickered in and out of Caleb’s brain as he rode. 

_ “Don’t you smile at me, you lil’ shite.” _

_ “Oh, come on, Caleb. Don’t tell me you didn’t enjoy it a bit.” _

_ “M’not tellin’ you anything, Tallboy.” _

Caleb sniffled. He drove his stirrups harder into his horse.

The sun had begun rising by time Caleb arrived at the scene. A low fog rolled over the field, through the woods, catching only where baby rays of sunlight caught it. The air was heavy; it smelled of copper and iron. Caleb slowed his horse to a stop as he dismounted. Everything felt wrong here. Even as the sun’s rays began to grace the world with their glow, Caleb couldn’t help but feel his stomach churn. Something felt wrong about this place, and he wasn’t sure what it was.

The field was littered with tents, rucksacks, and bodies. The blue, white, and gold uniforms of the men were only just coming into view with the light of a new morning, as were the clothes of those who had yet to receive proper uniforms. Caleb’s hand came up to his mouth, rubbing his jaw. Christ. It wasn’t just a fight, like the recruit had said; it was a massacre. 

Young and old, the bodies lay strewn across the field. Some of them were propped up against nearby trees. From the looks, it seemed as though nothing of importance had been stolen which was...strange. Caleb slowly made his way from the outside of the field inwards, checking through the rucksacks that still clung to the bodies of the fallen. Each seemed to still be full with provisions the men had taken with them. Any personable items, such as cups, razors, mirrors, and a change of clothes, had been left behind as well. Caleb frowned. 

_ A tall man with a wild look in his eyes cut him down in front of us. _

Caleb sighed. His mind traced back through last night, trying to remember what exactly that recruit had said, but the only thing that stuck was the one sentence. A tall man with a wild look in his eyes. There were so many the pair had offended in their time thus far of the war; it could have been anyone. 

It could have been Rogers; an ex member of the Queen’s Rangers. But they hadn’t seen him since...well, since Rogers had saved his life that one night. It was a mistake, of course, but one Caleb Brewster was thankful for. Robert Rogers had steered Captain John Simcoe away from him and…

Caleb stopped in his tracks.

Captain John Graves Simcoe. The name reverberated through his body like a tidal wave. Caleb could feel his palms begin to sweat. That bastard was on deaths door last he’d heard. Thanks to Woodhull, himself, and Hewlett; John Simcoe was a dead man walking. Caleb bit his lower lip and stroked his beard as he began to walk further into camp.

_ A tall man with a wild look in his eyes cut him down in front of us. _

Caleb snarled to himself as he tried to shake the sentence from his mind. No. Simcoe wasn’t around. He couldn’t be around. Caleb Brewster wouldn’t allow his mind to even contemplate it.

Caleb’s eyes flickered quickly over every body. His search would be futile if he didn’t find Ben, though, he realized that if there was no Ben body, perhaps the recruit had seen wrong. There was a hope fluttering in Caleb’s chest the further he worked his way into the camp. Maybe the scrawny man  _ had  _ seen wrong. Benjamin Tallmadge was stronger stuff than that; stronger than anything. He couldn’t be slain by a bullet. Caleb had seen Ben shot. He’d seen him nearly cut down in battle. He knew Ben’s resilience. Knew that if Ben had been injured, he would have fought until the end, but he was smarter than that. He knew what battles to pick; knew that sometimes you had to pretend to be dead and wait for the enemy to leave before crawling back from the depths of Hell. Caleb Brewster knew this, because he’d seen it so many times before in Ben. The idea that he could even be dead was just...a fairy tale.

Unfortunately, all good things must come to an end.

Laying in the center of the camp was a man. A man dressed in blue and gold and white. His epaulettes were those of a Major rank; and as Caleb’s eyes fell upon the body in the center of the field, his heart sank. Caleb couldn’t feel his body. He couldn’t feel his legs begin sprinting towards the body on the ground, couldn’t comprehend in his mind the fear and the terror rising up in his chest.

“Ben,” he breathed out. Caleb fell to his knees as he came upon the body. His eyes scanned him over. Same height. Same build. Same clothes. In the center of Ben’s chest was a bullet wound; a clean shot, possibly from near point blank distance. Caleb’s hands shook as he grabbed Ben’s hand. The face had been completely bashed in, perhaps with the butt of the rifle that shot him. It was one thing to kill a man, Caleb thought, but it was another to mutilate them to the point of being unrecognizable. If this was Simcoe, and the evidence was swiftly pouring into Caleb’s brain that it was him, this had been personal. It was personal, and it was evil. 

“Christ, Benny boy,” Caleb said in a shaky voice. He wasn’t sure when he’d started crying, but he could feel the hot tears begin rolling down his cheeks, getting caught in his beard. He pulled Ben into his lap, allowing himself for the first time to feel the raw emotion of what he’d felt last night.

Caleb screamed. 

He screamed and cursed God.

He screamed and cursed England.

He screamed and cursed Washington.

Caleb Brewster screamed until the sun sat high in the sky, and his voice was hoarse. He wept, openly, over Ben in his lap. It wasn’t until the sun began to dip behind the trees again that he finally stood up, wiped his nose, and turned to begin taking items from the camp site. He would wrap the body in one of the tents, and he would bring him home.  _ To Hell with the rest _ , he thought as he prepared his horse to leave. He didn’t care enough to bury his fallen comrades. He didn’t care enough to give Washington the closure he deserved with Ben. He didn’t care enough for this bloody, fucking war. All that Caleb cared about was getting Ben home, putting him to rest properly, and then fucking off back to his London Trade. To Hell with Washington and the war. To hell with Abe and his Culper Ring. Caleb didn’t care anymore. There was nothing left for him there if Ben wasn’t there.

He mounted his horse. 

“I’m so sorry, Tallboy,” he sniffled, “I’m so sorry. I shoulda been there for you, Benny. I shoulda gone in your place... _ Christ, _ Ben.”

Caleb wiped his nose on his jacket, and gently ushered his horse to a walk. 

He’d bring Ben back. Then he’d resign his post.

And that was that.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The world outside was dark. Storm clouds had rolled in and the distant rumble of thunder grew louder and more frequent. Rain pattered softly against the men that joined the procession to the cemetery they had formed just outside of Valley Forge._

The morning was dreary. Heavy clouds loomed over head; it looked like rain. It shouldn’t have been a surprise, after all, March was when the world began to bleed with rain until the summer sun came and dried it all away. 

General George Washington stood in the center of his room. Martha had returned home to Mount Vernon, and for once, he wished for her gentle embrace. Today was going to be a difficult day. 

Caleb Brewster had returned to camp some time in the middle of the night, and he hadn’t come home empty handed. He had screamed loudly, demanded Washington’s presence. The whole company had awoken from sleep and stood at the edge of their tents as he rode through camp on his horse with a corpse tied on the back.

“Give me Washington,” he had snarled, and George had obliged. He had walked out, dressed in full military garb with his head held high as Caleb’s horse skidded to a stop at the front steps. George could feel his heart sink into his chest again and again as he thought back to last night and the way it sank when he saw the body wrapped in cloth. There had been silence when they were finally in the main room, a coffin brought in for the former Major to lie in state.

“You happy?” Caleb had spat. George recoiled as he tried to keep his composure.

“Lieutenant Brewster, I thin--” he began. 

“No, you didn’t, Sir.” Caleb had snapped back in response. George could see the red that had overtaken the whites of his eyes, could see the dried mucus on the top of his already messy beard. George could recall with the utmost clarity the fury in Caleb Brewster’s eyes when he pointed to Ben’s body lying in the casket.

The night had been long even after Caleb left. George had stayed, watched Caleb storm out while cursing loudly. He’d been there when they removed the tent cloth, was present when Ben was set in his final bed, and he remained long after Caleb Brewster left, standing over the open casket of a man he had come to know and love with such earnest that he felt his heart crack and break in his chest. It was the first time in a long time that George Washington cried in the sanctity of his home.

Yet as morning broke, George found himself still standing there. His eyes were red, his face pale. Bags had begun to form under his eyes, ever more present by the lack of color in his face. 

The thing about unexpected goodbyes was that they were harder than ones that were expected. Old age, disease, injury...those were all acts of nature and bad luck and while sad, they were usually expected. There was time to say goodbye, time to clear the air. Murder, on the other hand, was different. Sure, they were in war- this was to be expected. People died, it’s what they do. It should have been expected, should have been right there in the sign up sheet: Possibility of Death. Washington had never expected Benjamin Tallmadge to be part of that statistic.

“Excuse me, Your Excellency,” came a voice from behind. George turned, his eyes catching the sympathetic look of the camp’s Reverend. Ahh, yes, he was here to deliver one last sermon. A sort of last rites, even though the dead could not receive them. George nodded silently. He stood there and listened, his hands clasped behind his back.

_ We ask the Lord to take the soul of our Beloved, even though he left us before his time. We pray that God Almighty shepherd him to Heaven, and that He helps our lost sheep find peace amongst his ancestors. _

George Washington could feel his heart breaking as the priest finished, gave him a nod, and walked out the door. He could feel the world around him crumble as several of his men came into the main foyer to place the lid of the coffin on. God, how Washington wished he could stop them, wished he could tell them to stop, to leave, to go on assignment or do something else and leave them alone. He wished, but the words could not find their way out of his mouth. He stood and watched as they carried him out. 

The world outside was dark. Storm clouds had rolled in and the distant rumble of thunder grew louder and more frequent. Rain pattered softly against the men that joined the procession to the cemetery they had formed just outside of Valley Forge.

It was a lovely service, in the end.

Or at least, Washington assumed it was lovely. 

It was as lovely as one could be when strapped in the middle of a war with only the bare inklings of where to turn next. George was sure it was nice, he believed it to be nice. Washington didn’t remember much of it, if he was honest. His mind had wandered far from Valley Forge to a long forgotten place in his mind; somewhere warm and so terribly far from America and from all of this. He didn’t catch Caleb’s eyes as the whaler stared him down through the whole procession, eyes as red as blood from the tears that had dried the whites.

At some point, though George wasn’t entirely sure when or how, he found himself back in that main sitting room, staring at a roaring fire. The ceremony had long since ended and night was beginning to fall. It seemed as though time was coming and going for him, and the sudden realization of what time the grandfather clock read left him with a shocked expression.

“Your Excellency,” came the low voice of Lee, his valet. The younger man stood in the doorway, a look of concern blooming across his face. George turned, eyes only half catching Lee’s, too startled by the sudden presence of another to fully acknowledge him. 

“Yes,” he replied, his voice distant.

“A Lieutenant Brewster for you, Sir. Is this a bad time?”

George turned back to the fireplace. His hand rose to his mouth as he rubbed his jaw.

“No, no, send him in.” Washington said softly.

Lee nodded, turned, and ushered Caleb into the room. He stood there, his hat in his hand and his face puffed and red. George turned, caught Caleb’s eyes, and looked away. They could feel the void between them growing steadily; a chasm of energy needing release with neither party ready to take aim and fire the first shot.

“General Washington,” Caleb finally began. 

The guns were loaded. It was only a matter of time.

“Yes, Lieutenant Brewster. How may I help you?” George responded.

The guns were cocked. George turned now to catch Caleb’s eyes, both parties standing stoically in the room, waiting for the guns to be drawn on each other.

Caleb shot first.

“I’d like to resign my post,” he said bluntly. Washington stared at him, eyes widening a fraction as he watched the bullet leave Caleb’s mouth and dive straight into his already wounded heart.

“Effective immediately.”

George stood there, and he felt his world crashing down. To lose Ben was heartbreaking enough; to lose Caleb as well essentially meant losing the war, and they had already come so far.

“No, I’m sorry. I cannot allow this.” Washington shot back. 

The look on Caleb’s face fell somewhere between confusion and shock. He went to speak, but George’s hand was in the air and his head had somehow begun to shake from side to side.

“We have come too far,” he began, voice calculated and even tone. Caleb’s confusion and shock melted into frustration as he took a step towards his commander.

“Sir,” Caleb began.

“No. We have come too far and I cannot allow this war to end because of…”

“Because of Ben?” Caleb sneered. Washington nodded.

“It is sad, Lieutenant Brewster,” Washington began, “that we have lost such a good man. And he will be missed.” He paused, attempting to keep his voice as even toned and professional as possible.

“And he’ll be missed,” Caleb mocked, eyes narrowing as he watched Washington. The tension, once a simple chasm was beginning to grow into a vast sea and both parties could feel the weight of the waves begin to crash over them.

Washington gave Caleb a stern look. Caleb refused to back down.

“We must see this war through,” Washington began slowly, “it’s what he would have wanted. We must see the Culper ring through.”

Caleb wanted to scream. He wanted to tackle Washington to the ground and beat him until it clicked; there was no spy ring without Benjamin Tallmadge. There was no seeing the war through. There was just nothing. Yet Caleb couldn’t bring himself to say it, couldn’t bring himself to admit that it was all over. So he just stood there and rubbed his jaw for a long moment before shrugging his shoulders. 

“Go fuck yerself, you piece o’ shite,” Caleb spat as he turned on a heel. George let out a loud exhale as he watched the only other member of his spy ring leave the room. As the tension settled, he turned back to the fire and put his hand over his face.

The war would be long, but without Caleb Brewster at his side; without Culper and Culper Jr. at his side, the war would already be lost.

“Oh, Benjamin,” Washington muttered as he rubbed his face, “what would you do…? How...do we move on from this?”

The wind outside howled against the tents and the house as the Continental army settled in for a long battle to come.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _A figure emerged through the shadows. Bloodied, battered, starved. George felt something hot and wet against his face as his legs unconsciously forced him to run towards them. The figure took a step, collapsed. George was on his knees before he even realized what was happening, his hands cupped around the face of the man that had just come out of the woods with his face bruised and his body broken._

Several months later, and nothing much had changed. 

In fact, so very little had changed that the Continental Army had begun to question George Washington’s capability to lead. 

_His mind is gone._

_ He’s too distracted. _

_ That Frenchman came in and was supposed to help. Where is the help? _

_ Do you see the way Washington holes himself up in that house? _

_ The war is going to be over soon, boys. _

And it was true, for the most part. Washington had sealed himself up inside his stone fortress, only coming out when necessary. A young Frenchman, whom many in the camp called Lafayette, had shown up one day on Washington’s doorstep and became a central figure in planning. He’d taken over several charges, reported to Colonel Hamilton for missions, and helped stall and prolong the war. 

The men were on the constant verge of starvation. Washington haphazardly ordered for supplies and told men to obtain them at all cost. Yet without a proper lead, they found themselves captured, or worse. 

Even morale had begun to sink into the mud of Valley Forge, seeping through the soles of men’s shoes as they marched ever onward. Most tended to ignore each other; so many barely passing glances at their former lieutenant Caleb Brewster. He seemed to be a shell of his former self from that dreary day a few months back. Most men pitied him, and all of them kept their distance.

For Caleb Brewster, there was nothing left in Washington’s camp. There was only death, and destruction, and mutiny on the rise.

For Caleb Brewster, there was nothing left for him anywhere. His home of Setauket brought with it too many memories of his childhood, his family and friends...of Ben.

For Caleb Brewster, it seemed as though the Culper ring had ended, and his job was soon to be done.

Washington had called on him, given him permission to go to Setauket and deliver the news of what had happened and essentially cut ties with Abraham Woodhull in Long Island. Caleb Brewster left that very day, his heart in his feet and bags under his eyes.

_ You’re...joking _, Abe had said, his hand over his mouth. Caleb looked withdrawn, tired. Mary and Abe had taken him in, fed him and kept him safe and hidden. Abe had been busy building a new homestead on his old farm, but for the time being, Caleb had been more than welcome to stay in the house of Jeramiah and Luke. Abe’s father had taken the two men in anyway into Whitehall’s protection and service; it provided a decent cover.

Besides, Caleb knew he was done. There was nothing left for him back at Washington’s headquarters. So he stayed away; deserted as best he could. Washington had given him the order to see the spy ring dismantled- it wasn’t as if he knew how long that was going to take. Besides, Caleb had reasoned, if he ever returned he could claim he had to wait until he was sure Culper Jr. had received his letter to disband from the ring. It was, if nothing else, a barely passable cover story to see him not hanged for his betrayal.

Caleb had told Abe everything. They sat in silence one night with a bottle of brandy each in the small cabin. Abe rubbed his jaw as Caleb tucked into the bottle.

_ Do you know who did it? _ Abe asked.

_ Some bastards in green coats. _Caleb sneered.

_ Do you think it was Simcoe? _

Caleb’s eyes had shot up. He’d looked at Abe with wonder as the cabbage farmer made the connection. There was no lie that he had put that question to the task, but Caleb shook his head.

_ Last I heard he wasn’t doing too well, Woody. _

_ Yes, well, he’s survived worse things and made it through alright. _

Abe had shot him a dangerous look; a look that implied he knew more than he was letting on, but he gave a little shrug and sipped from his bottle. Caleb never liked that look, because he knew what it meant; knew it meant Abe knew something that was just off the radar of important to the Culper mission that he felt it unnecessary. 

Caleb sat back and took a long swig of brandy. 

_ I really don’t like when you keep things from me, Woodhull. _He said.

_ Look. You said the ring was done. It’s done. I have nothing for you, Caleb. Now, you’re more than welcome to stay but, if you’re going to cau-- _

_ Don’t patronize me, Abe, _ Caleb had growled, _ Ben’s gone and it’s because some fuck in a green coat and some fuck running the Continental Army got their luck mixed up. Washington let him go, and some bastard got lucky enough to blindside Ben. _ His voice shook as he sat forward, eyes dark as he’d stared Abe down. 

_ Now, I don’t know what you know, Woody, but if it...if there’s ANY inkling chance Simcoe is alive and responsible...I’m goin’ fer that bastards head. _

Abe was silent a moment. He’d sipped his brandy and stared at the fire before turning his attention back to Caleb. Slowly, he inhaled and nodded his head.

_ Heard from a man in Northport he’d seen someone matching Simcoe’s description heading towards Oyster Bay. Didn’t want to believe it, but… _ and at this, Abe paused, sipped his brandy and shook his head, _ didn’t want to take a chance either. I know he’s still sniffing around for Culper. _

Caleb’s face landed somewhere between a snarl and a scream as his jaw clenched and his teeth poked through his lips. It was something, but it wasn’t enough.

_ How long? _ Caleb had hissed.

_ Pretty recent. Apparently they came back from a successful mission in...Pennsylvania. _Abe said lowly. Caleb had felt his heart sink into the floor of the cabin as he stared at Abraham Woodhull.

Simcoe.

Caleb’s hands had balled into fists, and somewhere in between that action and what came next, he’d lost himself. He wasn’t entirely sure, but when his vision returned, the table they had been sitting at was overturned, the brandy spilled across the floor, and Abe was looking absolutely horrified at the scene that had befallen them. They remained locked in a stasis for what had felt like an eternity before Caleb found his legs ushering him out the door.

_ Caleb? Fuc--Brewster! Where are you going?! _Abe had shouted after him.

_ Back to Washington. I’m gonna put that little shite right where he belongs...in Hell. _

The trip back to Valley Forge was a long one, and one just long enough for Caleb Brewster to set up a plan of action. He would find Washington and display the report from Samuel Culper in front of him like a feast. He would use the knowledge Ben had taught him and entrusted him with to secure a means of attack. He wouldn’t leave until Washington was on his side and granting him permission to see out the mission. It was, Caleb reckoned, the least he could do in Ben’s name and honor.

“What in the name of---Lieutenant Brewster! I demand to know the meaning of this intrusion!” Washington snapped as he looked up from several maps that he and Lafayette were pouring over as Caleb stormed into the building.

“I know who killed Ben,” Caleb shot back coldly. There was a moment of silence as Washington straightened himself up. Lafayette’s gaze held mild interest as he turned his attention from Caleb to Washington and then once more back towards Caleb. 

Caleb took a step forward. Then another. He marched up towards Washington’s war table and looked the general right in the eyes as he said--

“It was Captain Simcoe of the Queen’s Rangers.”

Washington’s face contorted. He stared at Caleb for what felt like an eternity before speaking. Even with his eyes wide and face distraught, his voice was as calm and collected as it always was in the face of company.

“How can you be sure?” Washington inquired.

“Culper, sir. He told me when I went to…” he began, pausing as he looked to Lafayette. Washington made a noise that landed somewhere between anger and curiosity. 

“I am assuming, son, that you withdrew from your mission when you learned of these facts?”

“I did, yes, Sir.” Caleb’s gaze dropped. He felt his hands wringing against his oilcloth jacket. 

Washington’s head tilted upwards, and a small but grave smile found itself slithering onto his face.

“I see,” Washington began, hands folding behind his back, “then I can only assume you know what must be done, yes?”

Caleb’s gaze shot up as he looked on Washington. 

“Sir?” Caleb began.

“Captain Simcoe has been quite a thorn in our side, wouldn’t you agree, Lieutenant Brewster?”

“Y..Yes, Sir, I would.”

“Well then,” Washington continued, nodding his head, “I think it’s time we put an end to that. Take whomever you see fit, and carry it out however you see fit.”

Caleb felt a surge in his chest as he looked at Washington and nodded. He was being gifted Simcoe’s head on a platter. Whether it was meant to be a peace offering from Washington or not, Caleb Brewster didn’t much care. He was tasked with a job, and he was going to finally see it done.

He made himself ready in an hour. No men. Just him, several muskets and guns, a few supplies for the road, and gunpowder. He didn’t plan to be more than a couple weeks at best, and if lucky, he’d fill up on supplies back in Setauket before returning to Valley Forge. He would kill John Graves Simcoe, and he would return to Washington, and then send in his formal resignation. 

Caleb Brewster urged his horse into a run as he left camp. His destination? Long Island. Come Hell or high water, he was going to see this man’s death through- personally.

Yet, as Caleb’s horse left camp and night began to fall, Washington felt something bubble in his chest. Perhaps he’d sent Caleb on a suicide mission, or, perhaps the whaler would do the justice that was so terribly needed. In any case, it found Washington pacing around the outskirts of camp once his meeting with Lafayette had finished. He ran the name over, and over again in his mind: Simcoe. Simcoe. That was a name he would never forget. Not after what he had done.

Washington paused, head tilting towards the sky as if hoping for some divine intervention. If only, Ben were here. If only they’d done things differently. If only…

The sound of a twig snapping in the distance caught his attention and brought it back to reality. George squinted in the early night’s darkness to try and catch a glimpse of whomever, or whatever was in the woods.

“Hello?” Washington called out. Another snap of a twig. Washington’s eyes narrowed as he looked on through the trees. 

It came without warning, but then again most things did. It took Washington by surprise, his breath hitched in his throat as he looked on. It was a ghost. Or was it? George started to rush towards the figure in the trees, but paused. His heart pounded in his chest, his hands sweaty. 

No.

No, it couldn’t be.

A figure emerged through the shadows. Bloodied, battered, starved. George felt something hot and wet against his face as his legs unconsciously forced him to run towards them. The figure took a step, collapsed. George was on his knees before he even realized what was happening, his hands cupped around the face of the man that had just come out of the woods with his face bruised and his body broken.

“Help!” Washington cried, “Someone! Anyone! Please, help! Get help!”

He looked down at the man in his arms, his hand brushing a lock of dirty blonde hair from the man’s face. Oh, how God smiled down upon him or cursed him, he knew not which. But he knew one thing...

Benjamin Tallmadge gave a shuddering sigh as he closed his eyes in Washington’s arms, safe and sound, and so very much alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whoops im a one trick pony who literally can't kill things he loves.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Somewhere in this damp, dark dungeon sits a man with dirty blonde hair. Chains hold him fast against the brick wall. The only sound that can be heard is the ever constant drip drip drip of water leaking from somewhere nearby._

The world is dark.

The air smells of sweat, blood, and mold. Through the smallest of cracks comes sunlight as it tries in vain to reach every corner of the stone sarcophagus. It’s been like this for days. Or maybe weeks. Months? It’s hard to tell.

Somewhere in this damp, dark dungeon sits a man with dirty blonde hair. Chains hold him fast against the brick wall. The only sound that can be heard is the ever constant drip drip drip of water leaking from somewhere nearby. Where, he can’t tell. He can feel it though; the dampness clawing at his lungs, the sunlight just barely caressing his face. It’s cold. Is this what death feels like? Is this Hell? Purgatory? He can’t remember. He can’t see, or think, or sleep. He can only sit and listen to the drip drip drip of water leaking from somewhere nearby and it’s driving him mad.

He tries to focus, tries to remember his surroundings. He can’t feel the ground beneath him. Is that normal? His heart starts pounding; the beat of a drum gone astray and off beat. If he feels his heart then surely, he must be alive. The world darkens more. The walls begin to melt behind him, and suddenly he’s free falling. Somewhere in the distance he hears a laugh and a high pitched British voice. It’s saying something, but the darkness is too thick; he can’t make it out.

“Ben,” comes a voice and it’s so distant- too distant- he can’t make it out. The world around him is suffocating. He’s drowning, he’s falling, he’s…

“Ben.”

Ben jumped with a start, his arms shaking as he sat up in bed. The world was bleary; everything just enough out of focus to make his head spin. Ben inhaled slowly, allowed his senses to come back to him. His body ached; that much was evident. 

“Ben,” came the voice again. It was familiar. It was comfort. Ben’s head shifted as he turned, eyes barely open as he caught sight of General Washington sat at his bedside. Washington’s face was awash with fear, concern, dread, and amazement. Ben groaned slightly as his hand rose to his head, fingers gently running over cloth bandages.

“Oh, Benjamin,” Washington sighed with relief. The General stared at him for what felt like an eternity, hands gripped against his breeches as he watched Ben slowly return to the land of the living.

“M’I dead..?” Ben croaked. Washington let out a nervous laugh and shook his head.

“No son, no. You are so very much alive.” Ben could hear the smile in Washington’s voice, could feel the relief washing over him like waves against a sandy shore. The light that began trickling into his eyes made him want to vomit.

“Too bright,” Ben groaned. Washington was up with a start, striding across the room to pull the curtains as best he could. As the room darkened, Ben slunk back down against the cot and sighed.

“Sir I’m-”

“Don’t you apologize, Benjamin,” Washington interjected. Ben sighed. His hands moved to rub his eyes, but Washington snatched them in his own and held firmly. 

“What happened?” Washington asked anxiously. Ben’s head rolled towards Washington, his eyes slowly opening and adjusting to the darkness.

“We were...ambushed,” he said after a pause, “got taken, Sir, by...Simcoe. He stripped me of my clothes and…” Ben’s head rolled away from Washington, his arms dropping from their held position. He groaned and cursed under his breath. The world was returning fast for Benjamin Tallmadge and the missing gaps were filling in like water in a hole.

Everything suddenly hurt. It was as if a white hot flame had burned itself into Ben’s eyes, skull, and every muscle in his body. He did his best not to show his discomfort, but Washington saw; because Washington saw everything. 

“Are you alright?” Washington asked, voice soft. Ben looked at him, face pleading for the General not to pity him. Ben inhaled and nodded.

“M’fine, Sir. Just...tired.”

“Understandably so,” Washington said. He gave the smallest, warmest smiles Ben had ever seen and for a moment, everything felt like it would be okay. Everything was going to be fine.

“Where’s Brewster…? Figured he would have been causing a ruckus by now.” Ben asked after a moment. Washington turned his gaze away for a moment before looking back to Ben and forcing a smile this time.

“Rest, Benjamin,” Washington said tenderly. 

Ben sat up a little straighter and winced, grabbed his head with his hand and gently rubbed circles against his bandages. Blue eyes shot to look at Washington who had all but averted his gaze.

“Sir,” Ben said a little firmer, “Where is Caleb? Is he okay?”

A beat.

And then another beat. 

“Sir.”

Washington sighed. His gaze fell upon Ben, and Ben shivered. There was something in Washington’s gaze--remorse? Sadness? Guilt? that made Ben’s heart sink into his stomach. There was something the General wasn’t saying, and it made every last fiber of Benjamin Tallmadge burn with anxiety.

“He has gone to seek out Colonel Simcoe,” Washington said at last. His gaze dropped. Ben’s heart fell into his feet.

“Wha--Sir, Sir he can’t,” Ben started.

“I am afraid so, Benjamin,” Washington interjected. He lifted a hand, tried to take Ben’s in his but was met with rejection as Ben pulled back and stared at him in disbelief. Hurt flooded Washington’s face as he tried to be as sympathetic as possible.

“He still thinks you’re dead,” he continued, “and has spent several months working and deducing who it was that came for your command. As soon as he found out, he asked permission to go and take care of it.”

“And you let him?” Ben’s voice was cold; soured more by the look of guilt that flooded Washington’s face.

“Sir, you know that Simcoe is a mad man. With all due respect, Sir, what were you thinking?”

Washington’s gaze hardened a bit at the bluntness in Ben’s tone. He shifted, sat up a little straighter. Ben shrunk in the cot.

“I thought you were dead,” Washington hissed. His voice cooled, his eyes locked onto Ben. Ben shifted, looked down at his sheets, shook his head.

“Lieutenant Brewster wished to end the one thing that has continually become a thorn in our side,” Washington continued, “so I gave him my permission and blessing.”

“Sir,” Ben started, “Sir, I have to...I have to go after him.”

“You will do no such thing, Benjamin. You need to rest. You need to heal.”

Ben inhaled, and everything stung with pain. He knew Washington to be right, and he hated it. With a slow resignation Ben slunk back down into the cot. Washington’s demeanor slowly softened in victory. He watched as Ben glanced at him before turning his head towards the wall. Washington could feel his entire essence beginning to unravel before him. His smile faded, his heart sank. He reached for Ben’s hand but stopped himself. Slowly, Washington inhaled and rose to his feet. He placed his hand on Ben’s forehead and gently thumbed loose strands of hair out of Ben’s face.  
“I am glad you are home, safe and sound,” Washington said lowly, “I did not know what I was going to do without you.”

Ben didn’t turn his head to look at Washington as he stood there. He didn’t turn to watch Washington leave. He simply laid there and watched the sun manipulate shadows against the wall.

The hours after Washington had left and returned to his duties were fraught with nightmares. Each time Ben would stir from sleep, a cold sweat rolling down his forehead; eyes wide and fists clenched in the blankets. Several nurses that had been assigned to him offered rum, brandy, medicine. At first, he welcomed them, but as night rolled on and the attendants were off to sleep, he couldn’t help but find himself sitting there with his head in his hands. Ben wanted to scream. He wanted to get up, punch something; anything just to remind him he was alive and that everything was okay.

But it wasn’t okay.

Slowly, Ben rose from his cot and stood. He looked around the room still dimly lit by the fireplace. The world outside was beginning to grow quiet. He walked to the window and stared outside, watching as men began preparing themselves for bed, or for watch. 

He knew what he had to do.

Ben got dressed. 

He crept along the outskirts of camp. He gathered a horse, a gun, and a sack of provisions left behind by a drunk recruit. He looked back at the house, back to the window on the second floor where Washington slept. Slowly, Ben inhaled, grabbed his side, and mounted his horse.

As the night settled in and the men fell asleep, Benjamin Tallmadge rode off into the night.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! Thanks for stopping by as I very late join this here fandom. This is gonna be a bit of a long story so, please settle in. I promise everything will be okay. 
> 
> Also!! We have a discord for Turn! Trying to find people still alive in the fandom, so please come join us all!
> 
> https://discord.gg/kW46AZn


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